


your body burns away the winter's cold

by Dialux



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, Half-Sibling Incest, Huddling For Warmth, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-16
Updated: 2017-04-16
Packaged: 2018-10-19 13:44:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10641033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dialux/pseuds/Dialux
Summary: Sansa knows what they think of her, knows it well. Lannister, Stone, Bolton; it’s a miracle the Stark underneath hasn’t crumpled already, broken from the weight of her masks and griefs. The Northerners distrust her for her past, and the wildlings distrust her for what she represents, and in the end all Sansa has is herself, as it’s always been.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the following prompt on tumblr: "huddling for warmth" pre-jonsa? I've alway had this image of ten sitting (snuggling) together in one of the tents, several days before the battle of the bastards, and desperately want someone to tell the story behind it.

Sansa’s cold.

Not so cold that she won’t survive, she tells herself. And it isn’t as if she has anyone to complain with- Sansa knows what they think of her, knows it well. Lannister, Stone, Bolton; it’s a miracle the Stark underneath hasn’t crumpled already, broken from the weight of her masks and griefs. The Northerners distrust her for her past, and the wildlings distrust her for what she represents, and in the end all Sansa has is herself, as it’s always been.

But, really, in the end, it all boils down to the fact that they just don’t like her.

So she keeps herself calm, unflappable, even in the fact of their utter contempt. Sansa’s suffered to get here. She won’t let herself falter now. She won’t complain, because she’s a Stark and a Northerner and she’ll show these thrice-damned people that if it kills her.

And yet- there’s a difference between facing off against lords’ disdain and being soaked to the bone in the only good clothes you have. The puddle she slipped and fell into was accidental; nobody had seen her fall, and she’d brushed herself off easily. The problem was in the tear of the furs which opened it up to the thinner layers below, and in the snowfall that came on later- they couldn’t find a proper place to camp for a few hours, and by that time her clothes almost froze solid.

Another violent shudder ripples through her, but she only clenches her jaw firmly and draws her hands closer to her torso.

She can’t call for more wood. Tormund was complaining to Jon just a few hours ago of the shortage in firewood; Sansa already has a private tent and a proper fire, which most of the wildlings don’t. Asking for more feels utterly selfish.

_Just a few minutes,_ she thinks, eyes drifting shut under a bloom of warmth in her gut. _I’ll take the furs off in a few minutes, and…_

She’s asleep, or nearly there, when she hears the rustle of cloth outside her tent. Sansa flinches, jerking upright, and Jon enters.

“The Mormont’s have offered some more wood,” he says, stripping off his gloves as he strides in, heading to the basin of water. “I’m sure it’s just because they want us to leave, but it’ll ease some-” he turns, and Sansa isn’t sure of what he sees on her face but it must alarm him, for he moves towards her quickly, brows furrowing.

“Sansa?” He says. Then, when she lolls her head back to look at him: “What in the name of-”

Jon’s voice fades into a sort of dull murmuring, too soft for her to identify. She feels his hand hover over her furs, then flatten over her heart, resting over the damp cloth. He swears, loudly, fluently.

“When did this happen?” He asks.  _“Sansa._ When did your clothes get so wet?”

“S-snow,” she manages to reply, dredging up the thought through a mind that feels slow and thick as molasses. “St-st-storm.”

“It’s been snowing for _hours,”_ he snaps. “You couldn’t have said something?” He sighs, though, and steps away briefly before returning. Sansa feels him brush her shoulder, impossibly lightly. “Do you trust me?”

Sansa’s tired. She’s tired and cold and she can’t even find the energy in herself to shiver. She looks up at him, at her bastard brother whom she’s never much liked but always loved- she looks at him, and she wonders, _How can I not?_

“Yes,” she says, and the syllable drops between them like a stone. 

Jon nods; one of his hands come up to cup her face, all sword-callused and warm, and the other does some fumbling things with the clasps along her furs. Sansa feels weightless, drifting along on a wave of syrupy sweetness, when something cold and sharp touches the inside of her elbow.

The abrupt jerk of her body startles Jon, but he soothes her, one hand cupping her cheek firmly and the other rubbing concentric circles along her palm.

“We need to get these clothes off you,” he tells her lowly. “You’ll freeze, Sansa, if we don’t. I know you’re probably not hearing me now, but…” his voice trails off again, but this time she’s more aware of the rustle of cloth falling off her, the rasp of the knife against her cloth. 

Ramsay had, once, held a knife to her eyes. He’d taunted her with it, terrified her. Jon’s just as close as Ramsay ever was; but Sansa can’t feel even a drop of the terror that had surged through her only months previous.

When her clothes are off, Jon draws away.

Her eyes flicker open, tracking him lazily: Jon’s hesitating, and Sansa doesn’t know why. Then he reaches up to his neck and undoes the clasp, draping his fur over her shoulders. 

“Sansa,” he says, leaning down and gripping her chin. “Sansa, listen to me: the wildlings know how to treat this kind of cold. They say-” he swallows, throat rolling, almost nervously; he looks like he’d once done in the godswood, she thinks suddenly, dared by Theon to swim in the black pool and afraid but still determined to measure up- then the memory fades, replaced by the tent and flickering shadows that are her homes now. There’s a faint warmth in her chest at the thought, though the rest of her is still comfortably numb. “-they say the quickest way to fix this is to- to touch each other. To be lying next to each other. To share the warmth of my body with yours.”

For a moment, Sansa wonders why he’s telling her all this; then she realizes: Jon can see the scars that Ramsay had left her, along her arms and belly and legs. The scars she’s hidden from the world for so long- Jon can see them, now, he  _has_ seen them, and though there’s anger and bitterness and grief in his eyes there isn’t anything resembling pity.

She nods, and he takes that as some sort of permission- Jon picks her up and takes her to the cot set up not a few feet away, and steps away. 

Sansa curls further against the wool of the bed, turned away from him. The blankets and Jon’s furs have started little pinpricks of heat along her chest and belly, and it’s as painful as the pins-and-needles sensation that comes with trying to walk on a foot that’s fallen asleep. 

And then he approaches, pushing her further on the bed so he can have some space with her, and wraps his arms around her- his bare chest to her back, broader shoulders hunching over her slighter frame, one arm slipping beneath her body to curl back over her waist and the other resting a handspan above the swell of her breasts. 

Briefly, she thinks on what Robb would have said to see his sister and brother in such an embrace; on her father- their father- and her mother. But then, they’re all dead, gone, vanished. 

All Sansa has is this man, this brother who died and then came _back-_ and in his arms, she feels the pain of her family’s destruction lessen, just the tiniest bit.

They fall asleep like that, or at least Sansa does. 

When she wakes the next morning, Jon isn’t in her tent. She’s warm, though, and the blankets are pulled up to her chin- Sansa picks herself up, reaching for her clothes. Jon was thoughtful enough to leave them in front of the fire to better dry.

She winces, inwardly, when her bones click like Old Nan’s used to- she’d always thought that disgusting, and now it’s happening to _her._ But then again, she’s alive, and that hadn’t been entirely guaranteed for a good portion of the previous night.

The normal camp rush is ongoing; Sansa picks her way through them, heading towards the commander’s tent where Jon will be with Ser Davos and Tormund, struggling to make a paltry army thrice as big as it’s actual size.

She enters, and they all pause when she does; it’s for a spectrum of reasons- she knows that much- distrust from Tormund, disquiet from Davos, and worry from Jon. The reason varies, but the result very little.

Sansa draws her furs together, inhales, and steps further in.

“You were saying, Ser Davos?” She asks, taking her usual position in the corner. 

_They just don’t like you,_ she thinks, and the thought is weary. One day, Sansa will just crumble under the weight of their expectations.

But when she skims the people’s faces, trying to understand the shift in dynamics that have taken place over the hours she’s been absent, she realizes that Jon is watching her instead of listening- there’s worry plastered all over his face, obvious as a painted mask.

Davos continues to talk. Jon doesn’t pay attention to him- he tilts his head, just a little, to the side. 

Sansa never knew him very well at all. There are times when her knowledge of Jon’s emotions are on par with that of a rock’s. But she knows exactly what he means with that single look: _are you alright?_

Her muscles ache; she feels foolish; she’s tired, a pillar that’s slowly being worn down by everyone’s anger and hatred. Sansa dredges up a smile for Jon and nods, once.

One day, she thinks, she’ll crumble. One day, she’ll be all alone.

But that day is not today, and so long as she has her brother here, Sansa will not let herself be anything less than her blood.


End file.
